Playlist
by Maiden of the Moon
Summary: When alive, Ciel Phantomhive had been cursed with a dreadful fear of fire. SebaCiel.


**Disclaimer:** I don't own Kuro, 3OH!3, Usher, Ke$ha, Pucifer, or Angelspit.

**Author's Note:** An idea that's been in my head for a while, now. Like so many others.

**Warnings:** SebaCiel. Debauchery…?

**XXX**

**Playlist**

**XXX**

_"I think I've been here before,  
I think I've run into you  
I know the things that you do  
'Cause this is Déjà vu"_

**XXX**

_I. "Hands up  
When the music drops, we both put our hands up  
Put your hands on my body  
Swear I've seen you before— I think I remember those eyes, eyes, eyes" _

He should have known from the moment that the girl first touched his arm— the instant that those crow-black talons grazed over the leather sleeve of his jacket, filling the scant space between them with the scent of worn prosthetic hide. From beneath the grasping twist of her fist came a sound akin to contorting ligaments, squeaking and squeezing through her fingers as her tongue darted out to moisten the glossed curve of her apple-red smile.

"Dance with me," she purred, in a wanton whisper scented of peppermint and toffee. And he did not resist her summons, because he was bored, and he hungry, and she was a tempting piece of meat indeed: legs and curves and scarcely bound breasts, each porcelain globe as full and white as the moon that hung behind the hazy smog of pollution-tainted clouds, strung up, up, up in the sky beyond this festering slime pit of a club.

On the lacquered surface of the grime-and-glitter floor, her stiletto boots clacked and clicked in time with his own: skating over the black ice of linoleum as friction heated the grinding cores of their bodies. Skin as pale and cold as snow began to pinken, slicken, melt; a rainbow sheen of gloss had soon encrusted intertwined limbs, making said appendages look rather plastic in effect. Beneath the girl's jugular, a dewdrop of crystal broke away from its brethren, tumbling like a bead of glass down the round of her bosom—disappearing into the forbidden chasm of her china valley. In vague amusement, he watched the liquid pearl's journey… and she, in turn, watched him as he did so. But her delight was not nearly so well contained as his own; within seconds of detecting his interest, she was giggling… no, snickering… no, outright _laughing_, and he found the sound, at once, so utterly charming and wholly _obnoxious_ that he thought, well, perhaps it'd be okay to break the rules. Just for now, of course…

She did not object when he bent down to kiss her— no one ever did—, but to his abject bewilderment, neither did she offer what he'd sought to steal. She kept perfectly still, willing and compliant, as he invited her tongue into his mouth, deeper and deeper, trying to drink in more-more-more… attempted to consume the sweet honey that should have lain in the base of her flowery being. But instead, _he_ was the one gasping in surprise, pain, and pleasure— bowing into the unexpected bite of razor-sharp incisors as they tickled the sensitive flesh of his parted, supple lips.

His heart stopped. Or would have, he supposed, if he'd had one. But either way, the copper-flavored truth was now on the tip of his tongue, playing with the girl's as she mirrored his prior ministrations, and the lightheaded delirium of temporary asphyxiation simultaneously brightened and darkened his world. Their teeth clattered, their hands grasped, their cantarella saliva mixed and stung and fizzled, and he felt stupid for having missed the obvious. The answer had been there all along, lingering in the undercurrent of her escalating euphoria. Her hair was long, crimped, and coal; her flesh had flushed in uncharacteristic excitement; her ample chest heaved with shallow breath; a single, heeled foot curled against the sinew of his thigh, forcing mismatched parts to chafe against the unyielding fabric that kept them callously apart.

But beneath the sweep of her low, angled bangs, her eyes were as they'd always been.

"It's been a while," she chuckled, grinning all the more maliciously when comprehension dawned upon the other's gawking face. "Have you missed me?"

_II. "There's a place I know if you're looking for a show  
Where they go hardcore and there's glitter on the floor  
And they turn me on when they take it off  
When they take it off— everybody take it off" _

They remained on the dance floor for a song or two… or what passed as "a song or two" in such a place, as the knee-buckling blasts that ripped through the black-box stereos were not anything at all like the music to which either was accustomed. But they were nothing if not adaptable creatures, and they were quite good at pretending to enjoy things that they hated.

"It's so very nice to see this form again," the girl sighed pleasantly, a dainty finger tracing leisurely doodles 'round and around a sensitive bud of her companion's unseen flesh. She smirked when it tautened to match her own, already straining through the sheer gauze of her nearly-transparent top. "I could hardly believe it when I saw you sitting there."

"You know that I cannot change appearances, anymore," he returned coolly, trying hard not to be distracted by her wandering ministrations. But idle hands were the devil's plaything, and it had been so very, very long since he had last been invited out for a game; how could he possibly resist the allure of new toys? In an instant, his hands had joined her own in an immoral rendition of hide-and-go-seek, searching out satin skin and old marks and the elusive, half-forgotten sounds of whimpers, gasps, and moans. She was counting backwards in her head, he knew: gnawing on the inside of her cheek to reign in her elation, to attempt to maintain control. But when seeking turned to hiding— when his palm slipped up her skirt, disappearing beneath thin layers of fabric and lace— the girl couldn't help but lean into his touch, his embrace, clinging (as she had in life) as he stroked and fingered and massaged and caressed until—with a groan of unconditional surrender— she finally shuddered, and he finally smiled. Her hands were still upon him, thin and hot and deliciously tense, but they were quivering more than moving, and she had been the first to succumb. _You're It._

132 wins, 59 losses. Not bad, all things considered.

_III. "The pressure is building at the base of my spine  
If I gotta sin to see her again then I'm gonna lie, lie, lie  
She'll make you cry  
I'll sell my soul to be back in your bosom" _

"It's almost too easy, nowadays," she lamented, staring deeply into the oily elixir that awaited consumption at the bottom of her smudgy glass. When she tipped it back and fore, the tumbler caught the light of a half-dozen seizing strobes, each an unnatural strain of neon; at just the right angle, one could plainly see every dirty fingerprint that had ever been left upon the cup. Inside each sooty swirl was a similar story; within each whirl a comparable wish or whine. She had undoubtedly heard them all… And very intimately, at that. "Do you want me? Yes. What would you do for me? Anything."

She snorted, chin falling to rest against the hinge of her wrist. The liquid inside of her glass thrummed and rippled in time to the bass beat, much like the floor beneath their drumming feet: a rhythmic pounding akin to a pulse, a perpetual _throb_ that made the whole building feel like the rumbling belly of a beast. "The only real work involved is figuring out who they want," she continued, flicking at an unruly ebony strand when it plunged off the cliff of her delicate shoulder. "Tall or short? Blonde? Brunette? Redhead? What color eyes? How muscular, how skinny? Things like that."

With an indifferent shrug, she brushed the spiraling loop back into its proper place and shook her head, smartly, once; when the tide of silk had come to an undulating stop, her waist-length waves had softened, shortened… What was once midnight-blue had become a lovely sand-brown, bouncing perkily in perfect, helixed ringlets. The other observed her transformation without comment, either spoken or implicit. And perhaps it was that apathy that provoked her, or maybe she simply enjoyed teasing him, because both knew her question's answer long-before she thought to ask. Either way, she soon felt prompted to pry.

"…say," she added, fluttering mascara-laden lashes as she offered her companion an impious stare. Behind her uplifted palm, she undoubtedly wore a sneer. "What form do you prefer?"

Sitting beside her in the crusting, shadow-soused booth, the demon smirked; the sight of it wavered when surveyed through the olive-green concoction currently filling his splintered martini glass. "You know which form I prefer," he then returned, gracing her with a calm and equally-nuanced glance. Through the jade-colored sea of his untouched beverage, her eyes glistened an unearthly shade of dark emerald.

"…indeed," she lightly agreed, a touch of humor dusted atop her drawled retort. Her fingers were her mask, but even still, he could hear her grin in the caustic lilt of her tone. "But I'm afraid _that_ form would get me kicked out of this club. They do have certain restrictions, you know."

A low chuckle, dark and sweet and syrupy; its lazy cadence was almost lost amidst the panicked heartbeat of the rave. "Pity," he murmured, releasing a blustery exhale in a staged show of regret— as thin and wispy as the cigarette smoke that drifted from his pursed mouth. "Something young and tender would certainly hit the spot, right now."

She frowned. Scowled, really, just as he knew she would; for the thousands upon thousands of differing meals that she had freely consumed, she was far too jealous and possessive to allow him the same courtesy. It was a fact that he did not so much _mind_ as enjoy exploiting; he had a difficult time mastering his leer when—in reply—she looped her shapely thighs around his waist and frostily suggested a different tender spot that he could hit, if he felt so inclined.

And he did.

_IV. "In the name of addiction—cadaver love song  
If you're needin' a villain, baby I'm your blonde  
I eat the soul up on wings of light that slither down low  
I am all things to all men, as long as you've got the dough" _

It was really quite serendipitous that she had spotted him there, waiting for nothing and no one in the dark. He wasn't entirely certain what had brought him to the club that night, other than the promise of a potentially easy dinner… the demonic equivalent of cup noodles, it might have been said; his only option, now that he was no longer permitted to prepare his suppers from scratch. But why the sudden urge to snack had struck him, he couldn't have honestly said. True, he had already gone a number of years without a bite to eat, but he could have endured a few more. Perhaps it was partly her fault, he mused; she had mentioned that she'd been planning on calling him in the near future.

"The buffet is almost over," she'd simply stated when he'd asked, and he knew well enough what that meant. Contracts were a thing of the dust-covered past: a formality that most of their kind had long-since forgotten… or, if they remembered, were content to bend to the point of breaking. She, for example, had turned these one-night-covenants into a virtual art, and was so quick to lure and snatch her prey that he wasn't even sure if she knew what her personal Seal looked like. Perhaps she didn't even have one. Only God knew, ironic though that might be.

_V. "It's time to kill the lights and shut the DJ down  
(This place about to—)  
Tonight we're taking over; no one's getting out  
This place about to blow" _

When alive, Ciel Phantomhive had been cursed with a dreadful fear of fire.

It was an understandable terror, really; twice he had watched his home be engulfed by pitiless flame, twice his life had been stopped and swallowed by cruelly searing infernos. In his nightmares, he'd spent days, weeks, months, _years_ trapped within the maw of those monsters: fighting past smoldering teeth and licking tongues of luminous burgundy, screaming in pain as orange sparks and ashen flecks of what-had-been left poisonous kisses upon his sweat-dampened cheeks. When he'd wake, it'd be with a start and a half-muffled shriek, clawing at invisible curtains of smoke and choking on the remnants of cinders and memories. Chewed up, spat out, barely clinging to his sham of a life… In that state he'd remain, frozen (and not wanting to be thawed): an inverse corpse, unable to sleep, fearing even the butter-yellow light of dawn that made his carpet glow like molten magma. Indeed, the poor boy would often feel compelled to keep bleary, bloodshot eyes glued to the distant iron grate, determined to make sure that no rebellious blazes attempted to climb into bed with him. No… The only hellish heat he allowed into his bed was of a different sort, tucked safely away in gloves of ivory white.

When alive, Ciel Phantomhive had been cursed with a dreadful fear of fire.

But fire was no longer frightening, just as Ciel was no longer alive. Rather, she laughed with uninhibited glee as she raised her alabaster arms, as if to welcome the expected. Or, perhaps, to cue it: with an unvoiced command, the seemingly sturdy (albeit shady) cement building imploded upon itself with a wail and a volcanic rain of chalky debris. Windows shattered with the sound of spiderwebbing crystal as invisible rooms sucked dry oxygen inward, then blew it back out with the yowl of a bomb and a sizzled surge of backlash. The labyrinthine walls that hid the underground rave from view echoed with the shrill shriek of alarms and hissing, broken pipelines, as if in tribute to the souls who had never had a chance to utter a farewell scream. They were dead before they'd realized it, the silly, drug-riddled animals; the only flickering lights in their future were the waiting flames of the damned, and the only dance they'd know would be atop a bed of crimson coals.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" the girl cooed in reverential awe, sapphire eyes sparkling with stars of scarlet as she watched the little world crackle and burn. "It feels like… home." Before her, the swirling firestorm raged and grew and roared like a dragon from the untamable deep; behind her, an amorphous coagulation of blackness wavered atop the pebble-strewn concrete, as if in parody of a silhouette. Like the girl, it was humanoid; like the girl, it was not human.

Attached to the heels of her companion, a similar shadow loomed.

"Are you still hungry, my lord?" the second asked politely, carrying two folded jackets over an elegantly crooked arm. "There is another promising club just down the street, past Madison. I have been there once or twice, and I would highly recommend their college football player."

The girl considered this suggestion for the span of a minute, stretching languidly as she slowly spun away from her fiery masterpiece. As she did so, her auburn locks retreated into her scalp, straightening and darkening; her sultry stride lost a foot or two in length as her already-small limbs became nothing short of petite. The thigh-high boots remained, but the skirt seemingly disintegrated, melting into a pair of sinfully short slacks; the translucent shirt shrank along with a once-buxom chest.

The elder demon couldn't help but grin as the freshly reconfigured nobleman sauntered up beside him, azure eyes sparkling like malicious jewels beneath the onyx fringe of his lashes.

"Gluttony has never been my favorite of the Seven, Sebastian," the younger one retorted casually, snapping lifted fingers. Both his butler and his conflagration responded to the curt call; both leapt eagerly into further action, ever happy to play their designated parts. Somewhere beyond the pair's retreating forms, steel beams screeched in last, desperate throes of resistance; the earth beneath their wandering soles shook (as if to the beat of an unheard bass line) as the gutted building surrendered to the inevitable, crashing down like the walls of Jericho. In the distance, the trumpet of an approaching fire truck serenaded its fall.

"Oh?" Sebastian murmured over the squeal of nearing tires, the song of slot machines and the chink of cutlery, all coated in the city's superficial shell of beauty. Whether the doors were graffiti-laden or inlayed with gold and mahogany, they opened to the same thing: separate pockets and sects of human-made hells, sweetened with avarice and vice. In the wake of that truth, it was only natural, really, that his tamer acted as he did… "And what Sin would better please you, young master?"

Ciel smiled, casting a licentious glance over an evocatively lifted shoulder. "What form do you prefer?" he repeated coyly, tauntingly, as he toyed with the decorative ribbon that he'd loosely laced around his neck. And soon it was not the only thing that encircled the pallor of his throat, providing the suffocating sting that he so craved. A knee, a nip, a rip, a snarl; he allowed himself to be roughly shoved against the brick of a back alley wall, fingers plucking at buttons that he really could have willed away, if he felt so inclined. But it was far more _fun_ to feel Sebastian's hands surround his own— to allow those skillful, match-like digits to start their own devilish blazes, sparking into life just-beneath his rosy, yearning skin.

Against the child's pallid nape, leering lips left a loving bruise of moldering violet.

"_You know which form I prefer_," Sebastian answered in kind, pressing closer-closer-dangerously closer… And his breath was so hot, his body so blistering, his touches so _searing_, that Ciel almost felt as if he had been gobbled up by boyhood nightmares: buried alive in a tomb of thrashing flame, swelling and heaving and surging and thrusting _and_—!

It wasn't long before he was screaming again, shameless and bleating against a nail-raked, semen-splattered, blood-painted wall.

132 wins, 59 losses, too many ties to count.

Not bad at all.

**XXX**

_"Dance with the devil  
Don't be shy—  
Nothing's gonna stop us  
We can't die"_

**XXX**


End file.
